


Her Music is Thunder

by suilven



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Case Fic, F/M, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sea Monsters, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:19:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27658072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suilven/pseuds/suilven
Summary: Six months have passed since the New Year's Eve kiss that Mulder and Scully had hoped would lead to more, but hesitation remains. When a new case takes them to Lake Superior and into the middle of a local legend where supernatural forces run as deep as the waters themselves, will their investigation finally break the impasse between them?
Relationships: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Comments: 62
Kudos: 101
Collections: X-Files Case File Fanfic Exchange (2020)





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SlippinMickeys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlippinMickeys/gifts).



> Written for the incredibly talented and all around awesome, Slippin' Mickeys, who I am not ashamed to hero worship and generally fawn over. I was simultaneously excited and terrified to get your prompt, and I hope I did it justice.
> 
> Prompt: Some kind of sea creature has been attacking ships in the Great Lakes. If there is a dual-investigation with their counterparts in the Mounties, even better (not necessary). Could be a "big blue" scenario where they don't catch the creature, or they do, but let it go, or whatever you want. S6 or S7

_A normal lake is knowable. A Great Lake can hold all the mysteries of an ocean, and then some._

_\- Dan Egan, The Death and Life of the Great Lakes_

The air inside the cabin was quiet and heavy, the smell of dust and mould filling the old man’s nose as he inhaled deeply. Still, it was good to be back. Everything seemed to be as he’d left it as he shuffled the familiar circuit through the small kitchen and living room and to the tiny bedroom in the back. The floor creaked in all the right places — unlike his bones, which now seemed to creak in all the wrong ones.

He sat down for a moment on the end of the bed, stripped of all its blankets in the fall to reveal the musty but still functional mattress beneath. Rubbing his palms against his denim-clad knees, he blinked with bleary eyes, almost sure he could hear the echo of Marjorie’s voice from the kitchen telling him he had better not be wearing his muddy boots into the bedroom — she’d just swept — and the shouts of laughter from the kids in the cabana next to the cabin. Those summers had seemed to last forever.

With a sigh, he stood up and fetched the sheets and quilt from where they sat folded neatly on the shelf in the closet and made the bed. He surveyed his handiwork when he’d finished, giving the floral peach and white checkered quilt one last tug on the bottom corners. Neat and tidy and square.

There was a long day of tasks ahead of him: checking on the well and the outhouse, inspecting the exterior for any damage or critters who had decided to make themselves comfortable during the long cold of the winter. He opened all the windows, humming as he went. The sunlight streaming in was welcoming, casting swaths of brightness across the slatted wooden floor. Maybe he could convince Lucy and Jeff to bring the kids up this summer; it had been ages since he’d last seen them. Always so busy with work.

He plugged in the fridge, nodding with satisfaction when the light blinked on as he opened the door. Hand towels were moved from the bottom drawer to hang cheerily over the handle on the oven door. A new washcloth for the sink. Each cupboard and drawer opened and inspected.

When he’d finished, he brushed off his hands on his jeans and grabbed a sandwich and a bottle of lemonade from the cooler he’d set down in the doorway when he’d arrived. The screened-in porch just off the entrance had seen better days — it could use a fresh coat of paint and a handful of rotting boards replaced — but it still got the job done. Maybe something he could pay one of the summer kids to do. There were always a few bored teens hanging around the local diner, more for the air conditioning than the ambiance.

Easing himself down into one of the blue adirondack chairs — his back had seen better days, too — he ate his ham and cheese sandwich and drank his lemonade, listening to the wind rustling through the leaves and the light trills of the shore birds. He rested his hands over his belly when he’d finished and closed his eyes, feeling the lull of contentedness overtake him. It was good to be home.

* * *

He awoke with a start, a muffled cough of inhaled breath caught between his throat and his nose. Dusk had settled in while he’d slept, leaving the porch twisted and overgrown with shadows. How had he slept so long? The entire day had vanished…

As he stood up abruptly, a shock of pain jolted up his spine, momentarily taking the air from his lungs. There was a dull thud of glass against wood as his forgotten bottle toppled over at his feet and a trickle of lemonade interspersed with ants drained out across the planks. His heart was racing and he wasn’t sure why, but he gulped in a few breaths trying to fight his rising panic. If he was to have a heart attack out here, no one would find him in time.

The initial hot spike of pain was beginning to subside — he’d stood up too quickly, that was all — and he mentally ran through a checklist of symptoms. He wasn’t nauseous. Not sweating. No crushing pain in his chest. He gingerly lifted his left arm up and shrugged his shoulders. Everything felt normal.

Forcing out a huge exhale, he nearly grinned at the overwhelming sense of relief. Everything was fine. He was okay.

He’d just slept longer than he’d planned and startled himself awake. Not surprising, given the physical exertions of opening up the cabin. He wasn’t as young and fit as he used to be.

He picked up the crumpled piece of wax paper that had once held his sandwich and then the fallen bottle, shaking out the last drops of liquid and the last few drowned ants that hadn’t been as fortunate as their compatriots. In the distance, the loons were starting up their nightly calls across the water.

It was easy to forget how _dark_ it got out here, without all the city lights diffusing their glow into the sky, artificially hiding the stars from sight. Out here, with the darkness closing in around him, taking his little cabin in the woods into its hands and cradling it within its fist, it wasn’t a far stretch to taste the primal fears that the first people to occupy these lands must have felt: a realization of how small we were in comparison to the depths of the universe around us; blown about at the mercy and whims of gods and nature, of storms and famine, of beasts and wonders.

He hadn’t turned on any lights inside earlier — why would he, on such a sunny day? — so the gathering blackness was ravenous and he could now no longer make out the half-bent birch tree he knew stood less than thirty feet away from the porch door.

Had it not been for the complete and utter darkness, it’s likely that he wouldn’t have seen it at all… the tiny glint of green light in the grass near the tree.

He cocked his head to the side and squinted. Maybe just a firefly.

But it didn’t flicker. Didn’t move. Didn’t dart off into the sky to join the others. There were no others.

Just this one.

Closing his eyes tight, he silently counted to ten in his head, and then opened them again.

It was still there.

His heart was still beating quickly, like the dull thump of the toppled bottle falling over and over again; he could hear it in his ears. Wiping a hand across his forehead, his fingers were left clammy and damp. Maybe he was sweating after all.

He set the trash from his lunch down on the chair and took a careful step forward. His legs were shaky, but he didn’t feel unstable or like he might pass out. Still, he waited another moment before taking a second step. No sense risking a fall. He took the stairs carefully, too, not that there were many, his gaze fixed on that strange little light. It might have flickered when he reached the bottom but it was definitely still there. Definitely still something not quite right…

As he walked closer, he could see something else… An egg?

He stooped down, parting the long grass at the base of the tree. Not an egg. A stone. And the green light was emanating from somewhere underneath it.

Gingerly, he picked it up between his thumb and forefinger and looked closer. Not just a regular stone — a Petoskey stone; he could see the distinctive pattern of the fossilized coral thanks to the dim iridescent glow. Odd to find one here — he’d collected them from the beach as a child, and then later with his own children and grandchildren, but he’d never found one in the woods before.

So, what was special about this one? He turned it over, placing it in his palm so that he could examine the underside. Some sort of viscous liquid was seeping from a central point, and a spider web of thin cracks were spread out around it. The light was coming from the liquid itself; brightest where a thick droplet was forming and then fainter and fainter down the tiny strands marking the fissure. What was this?

A bead of sweat broke free from his hairline and rolled down his cheek, but he scarcely noticed. There was a heaviness in the air, like an approaching thunderstorm, and his Adam’s apple gave a slow bob as he swallowed. He glanced from side to side in the artificial calm that descends when something is inevitable; the eagle’s talons pierce the hare and, for the briefest of moments, the hare experiences the exhilaration of flight.

The old man touched the substance oozing from the stone and the light arced and danced as it penetrated him cell by cell, invading him, changing him, spreading exponentially inward in a single breath, in a single lub-dub of his aging heart valves opening and closing.

For the briefest of moments, he flew.

And then all was dark.

* * *

A.Y. Jackson (1882–1974), Lake Superior Country, 1924, oil on canvas


	2. Chapter 2

_How many who have not seen Lake Superior have ever allowed their fancy to estimate what it must be – that great bowl which we, magnificent belittlers of the grandest of Nature’s achievements, call a lake, yet which, were it in Europe, would have become one of the seas of the world, paraded by fleets of war and dividing empires?_

_\- Julian Ralph, Along the Bowstring, Or South Shore of Lake Superior_

It was another day of grey and gloomy overcast skies, just as it had been all week; not oppressive, like a storm about to break, but just the monotonous drabness that was an absence of colour, and it left Scully feeling restless. It made the days feel like they had been blended together in one grand sweep of the artist’s brush, leaving a bored, half-finished smear across the canvas.

It also didn’t help that they’d been stuck in the office for ages, to the point where even _she_ felt like the attempt at organizing the filing cabinets was pointless anyway and she was struggling to come up with a compelling argument as to why they should continue. Not to mention the fact that, if she was bored, Mulder was practically crawling the walls. The amount of pacing, pencil tossing, and spontaneous trips to the cafeteria for coffee or muffins or _anything_ at all were no longer getting on her nerves. In fact, she was tempted to join him, and that was saying something.

They needed a case.

Mulder was currently staring blankly at the ceiling, a scattered pile of sunflower seed shells next to the stack of newspapers he’d been aimlessly flicking through, page by page, for the last hour. He was chewing on his lower lip, lost in thought and completely oblivious to the fact that she was staring, so it was a perfect opportunity for her to slake her thirst.

It had been over five months since he’d kissed her. Okay, almost six months, not that she was counting, since that New Year’s Eve that had ushered in something new — maybe? — but then nothing. He hadn’t done it again. Hadn’t even tried.

She nibbled her own lower lip, pinching it between her teeth, unconsciously mirroring him as she studied him. Had she read too much into it? It had been New Year’s Eve, after all, _and_ they’d given him a heavy dose of painkillers.

With a sigh, she dropped her gaze and stared at the blinking cursor on her blank document. Why did so many of his potential expressions of romantic intent have to be in hospitals while under the dubious effects of prescription narcotics?

Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be. It’s not like she was unhappy, in any case. Now that Diana had faded back into the past where she belonged, things between her and Mulder were better than ever, _stronger_ than ever. She glanced back over at him and couldn’t hold back the smile pulling up the corners of her mouth. God, he was far too handsome for his own good. And he was hers and she was his in all the ways that truly mattered; constants and touchstones.

But, damn, if she didn’t want to have him in that last way, too — carnal heat and passion and fire — enough to send a flush of blood to her cheeks and a spike of arousal to her core. Her underwear would be damp again by the end of the day, a seemingly constant problem of late.

She sighed again.

This time, Mulder looked over at her, and she could have sworn his pupils widened, that there was a spark of heat in the way his breath hitched, just for a moment, even though she was surely only imagining it. Seeing what she wanted to see.

“You okay, Scully? Your cheeks are all pink.”

Had his voice always had that rasp to it? That low, almost sub-vocal growl that sent another throb down to settle low in her belly.

“Hmm…” She attempted to feign a casualness she didn’t feel, suddenly overly self-conscious of every movement as she brushed a curl of hair back off her cheek. “Yeah, I feel fine. Just a bit warm in here today I suppose.”

“Mmm.” Mulder nodded as if he agreed with her, as if she _weren’t_ wrapped in the sweater she specifically kept draped over the back of her chair for colder days. Hell, even _he_ hadn’t shed his suit jacket today.

It was a Herculean effort to meet and hold his gaze, willing her heart to slow, to keep the flutter of her pulse in the hollow below her ear under control, as if he were some apex predator that could sense the waves of heat and nervousness emanating from her.

But then he ducked his head, returning to his newspapers with another crinkle of a page turning.

She made herself wait, watching the minutes roll by, until it seemed like enough time had passed that she could go off to the ladies’ washroom without it being odd. Turning on the tap, she let the water run for a minute, wanting it to be as cold as possible before she splashed her cheeks with it, and then patted them dry with the coarse brown paper towels from the dispenser.

After dumping the crumpled paper towel in the garbage, she paused and stared at her reflection in the mirror.

Her cheeks were still rose-tinged, despite her best efforts. And her head was filled with Mulder.

They either needed a case or she needed to get laid. She wasn’t going to survive this otherwise.

* * *

The following morning, after an unsatisfying orgasm thanks to her vibrator running out of batteries part way through, and a night spent tossing and turning rather than sleeping, she could have wept for joy when she saw Mulder bouncing on the balls of his feet, the projector humming and ready when she opened the office door.

“Scully, you’re not going to believe this one!” He grinned, nearly shoving a cup of coffee into her hands. It was from the coffee shop down the street — her favourite.

She smiled back, reflecting his own happiness back at him as she set down her purse and briefcase beside her desk so she could accept the styrofoam coffee cup. She took a careful sip in case it was scaldingly hot, but it was perfect and just the way she liked it with a dollop of cream and the barest hint of sweetness. “All right, Mulder, try me.”

* * *

“Mulder, this is all fascinating, but I’m failing to see why anyone would consider this an X-File.”

She leaned back against the edge of the desk, bracing herself on her palms, as she stared at the picture of washed up debris displayed on the screen. She was as desperate for a case as he was, but she couldn’t simply shut off the logical side of her brain.

“I mean, it’s clear that _something_ sunk these ships and I agree that the pattern around this particular island is statistically unusual, but that doesn’t mean that there’s anything supernatural or paranormal about the situation. You already said that storm activity has also been unusual in the area, so it stands to reason that there would be a higher probability of boating accidents, especially if the people piloting them aren’t accustomed to or expecting those conditions.”

“Well, first of all, if you’ve ever seen a storm rip through the Great Lakes, you’d know that the locals are more than accustomed to the unpredictability of the weather. However,” he held up a finger and grinned, “I have a much more compelling piece of evidence: an eye witness with a very interesting sighting.”

Scully fought the urge to roll her eyes, but gestured at him to continue. “A sighting of what, exactly?”

Mulder flipped open the file folder on his desk and handed her a newspaper clipping from inside. “I give you one Arnold Menzies, age 43, and the only survivor of the “Liquid Lunch”, which sank just two weeks ago. He describes seeing a creature in the waves, attacking the boat before he was thrown overboard. And not just any creature - a panther. A giant panther. With horns and a series of reptilian spikes sticking up along its back and an exceptionally long tail. Which, coincidentally, matches up with a creature of local legend, the mishipeshu, said to originate from — would you care to hazard a guess, Scully?”

Ignoring the fact that she hadn’t answered him, he ploughed on ahead. “That’s right. Michipicoten Island,” he rattled off matter-of-factly. “Which happens to be the island in Lake Superior around which our series of mysterious nautical disasters have been occurring.”

Scully finished skimming the article and held it out for Mulder, who snatched it up eagerly and tucked it back into the folder with some degree of reverence.

“Come on, you can’t believe that his account is any way accurate. It was dark. There was a huge storm with high winds and heavy rain. How could he possibly have seen anything in the water? Not to mention that he was found unconscious and severely hypothermic on the beach hours after the ship sank. He was likely concussed, confused, and dealing with the fact that he lost two friends in the accident. Can we justify an investigation based on a more than questionable eye witness and a series of statistically odd sinkings?”

He looked puzzled, his brow crinkled, like a puppy trying to figure out why she didn’t want to play fetch. “Yeesss? We don’t exactly have any pressing cases at the moment, and we haven’t been out of the office in over a month. If we don’t find something to do, Skinner’s going to come up with some sort of make-work project that will probably involve paperwork, so unless you’d rather —”

“Okay, okay. I give. You’re right.” She struggled to hide her own smile as Mulder’s face lit up with excitement. “But Michipicoten Island is technically inside the boundaries of an Ontario provincial park, so you have to figure out any permissions we need from the Canadian authorities. And no tents. I want to stay somewhere with a roof and electricity and indoor plumbing. Those are non-negotiable.”

Mulder was nodding eagerly. “Got it. No problem.” He clicked off the slide projector, plunging the room into partial darkness. “You won’t regret this, Scully.”

“I’d better not, Mulder.” She stood up straight, shaking her head a little. The things she did for this man, knowing how happy it made him to chase monsters… Maybe she _was_ the crazy one. “I’d better not.”

* * *

Franklin Carmichael (1890–1945), Lake Superior, 1926, watercolour on paper


	3. Chapter 3

_We found that, at times, there were skies over the great Lake Superior which, in their singing expansiveness and sublimity, existed nowhere else in Canada._

_\- Lawren Harris_

“You know, the last time we did this, I went home without my dog.”

He glanced over at her, before redirecting his gaze back to the road ahead. There was a steady drizzle coming down — had been since their plane had landed two hours ago — and the landscape around them was drenched in wet mist.

“Well, I can’t promise you anything, but since we’re dog-less — so far anyway — on this trip to start with, I think I can safely promise that the mishipeshu won’t eat your dog.” He’d never been overly fond of Queequeg, who had barely even qualified as a dog in his mind, but he did still feel badly about the fate that had befallen him and how upset it had made Scully. No one deserved to be eaten… not even Queequeg.

“Assuming it is a mishipeshu. Or some other sea monster or lake monster. Which it’s not.”

They fell into silence with just light patter of the rain on the windshield and the occasional squeak of the windshield wipers as they continued their back and forth arcs over the window. He couldn’t resist sneaking peeks at her out of the corner of his eye as they drove towards the harbour and the small boat that would take them across the water to Michipicoten Island. He was inescapably drawn to her lips, knowing how soft they had felt against his own.

Kisses to a cheek, a forehead, the back of a hand, were second nature — a natural expression of the depth of their relationship — but somehow the lips were something forbidden, a sacred place where they had both feared to tread. It was so many things: a desire to stay wholly committed to his work; to uncovering the truth of what had happened to Samantha; to a self-doubt that he could be the sort of person to love and be loved. So, what had changed on New Year’s Eve?

He didn’t know.

It wasn’t something tangible, a momentous decision reached after a cosmic burst of self-awareness.

It had simply felt right.

From the knowing smile she had given him as he’d pulled away, he was sure that she had thought so, too.

Yet now they’d stalled again, and he wasn’t sure what to do to get it back again, that feeling that they were right where they were supposed to be. Maybe he should have kissed her again straight away in the parking lot as she was helping him into the passenger seat or when she’d helped him upstairs and insisted on checking his bandages just one more time.

But the moment had slipped away, an otter twisting and diving gracefully through the river’s current, and now they were on opposite banks once more and he had no idea how to get across.

He looked over at her again as the harbour buildings came into sight just ahead. Her head was still leaning against the passenger-side window, and she was drawing a circle around and around in the fog that had condensed on the inside of the window with the tip of a finger.

* * *

“The name’s Bernice, but everyone ‘round here calls me Bernie.” The woman who met them at the Michipicoten Island dock bore a strange resemblance to the glacial rock that made up this region: her skin was worn and rough from years of working outdoors, her hair was short and wiry and grey, and her nose jutted from her face at an odd angle like a chunk of granite — no doubt broken sometime in her youth and not set properly. She certainly didn’t fit the conventional standards of beauty, but there was something about her that drew one in. Something about her belonged here, in this place.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Agent Mulder and this is my partner, Agent Scully. I believe we spoke on the phone earlier.”

“Of course, that’s why I thought I’d come and meet ya here, give you a lift into town.” She gestured at the car parked nearby, an old Ford that appeared to be more rust than metal. “I’ve got my truck parked at the diner. You can use that while you’re here to get you back and forth between the cabin and town. Not much of a town, mind, but enough to handle the summer folk. Most folks don’t winter here, so not much sense in having more than the basics...”

She continued to talk, barely pausing for breath, as Scully and Mulder loaded their luggage into the trunk — Scully was glad she’d packed as light as possible, since the trunk was stuffed full of tarps and fishing line, a sleeping bag patched up with peeling silver duct tape, and a variety of other odds and ends. Mulder opened the passenger side door for her and they both stared at the hopelessly tiny backseat.

“You take the front seat,” she offered. “My little feet will fit in the back better than yours.”

What had once been a bone of contention had become a long running joke, and he smiled gratefully at her as he flipped the lever to make the front seat slide forward enough for her to — barely — crawl into the back seat. Even with the added space of the front seat, he still had to contort himself to get in.

Bernie hopped into the driver’s seat and started the engine, which made a series of concerning grinding and clanking noises as it sputtered to life.

“Anyway, you’re lucky you called me when you did. This place books up fast for the summer, so my old place is the only cabin left. Hope you like rustic!” She chortled, elbowing Mulder’s arm as they barrelled forward at more speed than Scully would have suspected the car was capable of.

_Rustic_.

She fought the urge to groan.

“So, you’re here looking into those ships that sunk, right?” Bernie asked. “Certainly have been a lot of ‘em lately. Joe at the lighthouse — he’s on the east corner — he was tellin’ me he remembered his granddad talking about something like this happenin’ before, back when the copper mine was still open. It’s all abandoned now, you know… supposed to be haunted, but what isn’t these days? Ghosts are everywhere if you have the eyes to see ‘em.” She laughed loudly and tapped the side of her crooked nose.

“What do you know about the mishipeshu?” Mulder asked, and the older woman’s eyes lit up.

“Not surprised you’ve heard of that. It’s a legendary creature according to the Anishinaabe and Ojibwe people; supposed to be an underwater spirit that takes the form of a giant wild cat but with bits and bobs of snakes and lizards and even deer antlers in some versions.”

Mulder looked back at Scully briefly, pointedly raising his eyebrows and mouthing ‘giant panther’ before turning back to excitedly ask Bernie to elaborate further.

Scully shook her head, and turned her attention to the scenery outside her window, not that she could see much of it through the clouds of fog that seemed to be swelling and swirling directly from the ground, studded randomly with tall trees and outcroppings of rock that vanished so quickly that they could have been real or imagined. It was strangely unsettling in a way she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

Arriving at the diner, Bernie cheerfully handed them the keys to an equally decrepit truck that had once been cherry red, and pointed them up the road with instructions on how to reach the cabin.

“Come find me here once you’re all settled and I’ll get you fed,” Bernie said after they had pitched their luggage into the bed of the pickup truck. “The Mountie fellas should be along on the next boat, so you can take them up to the cabin with you after.”

“That sounds great!” Mulder said hurriedly, getting into the driver’s side. “We’ll be back in a bit.”

Scully stood for a moment, processing, before returning the enthusiastic wave Bernie was giving them and getting into the passenger side. She closed the door with a loud thunk.

“Mulder…” she said after a moment. “What exactly did she mean by that?”

“Mean by what, Scully?” he answered innocently, turning the key to start the engine and then looking over his shoulder as he backed the truck out from its parking spot.

She pinched the bridge of her nose. She was going to kill him.

* * *

By the time they arrived at the cabin, she had successfully managed to rein in her temper, although she wished Mulder had told her sooner that the only way he could get permission from the Canadian authorities to carry out their investigation was to agree to them partnering up with a pair of officers from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, and that all information they gathered during the investigation was to be fully shared on both sides.

Not to mention the fact that they were going to now be sharing the island’s only available accommodations with them. She could feel her anger rising again, but she tamped it back down. It’s not like Mulder had had a choice in the matter. There was nowhere else for them to stay and agreeing to have some RCMP guys hanging around in exchange for access to this case wasn’t a huge sacrifice, all things considered.

Mulder was excited to be here, chasing monsters, and, if she poked around into the deep, dark cupboards of her soul, she was, too. She shook her head, watching him heave their bags over his shoulder, flashing her a huge grin as they walked up the trampled dirt path to the front of the cabin. As long as he didn’t start singing ‘The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald’ — again — she could probably manage just about anything.

The cabin was small, but clean, comprising a shared living room and kitchen space, two bedrooms, and a simple bathroom with just a toilet, pedestal sink, and the world’s tiniest stand up shower. Looking at it, Scully was sure she would fit, but Mulder was going to have to hunch over if he wanted to wash his hair.

Mulder trailed her from room to room, watching her expectantly until she shook her head and turned to face him.

“This looks great, Mulder. Far nicer than the places we usually stay. And,” she checked the items off on her fingers, “no visible insect infestation or black mould. Electricity. Running water. Indoor bathroom. No complaints from me.”

He visibly relaxed. “I was worried, knowing it was our only option. You can have the bed in our room. The couch looks pretty comfy, actually.” He walked over to it and sat, bouncing lightly up and down. “Seems okay.”

Scully walked to the front entrance, picked up both their bags, and carried them into the closer of the two bedrooms. “Don’t be silly. We can share. It’s not like we haven’t done it before.” An image of Kroner and the two of them each clutching their respective sides of the mattress and not sleeping a wink the entire night skittered abruptly through her mind like little mouse feet dancing over wooden floorboards. She swallowed tightly. Hoo boy...

“I’m just going to use the bathroom,” she called through the open door, “and then let’s go chat up the locals. See what we can find out that wasn’t in those articles of yours.”

“Sounds good to me!” Mulder’s voice echoed back, full of unbounded enthusiasm.

She couldn’t resist running her fingers through her damp hair and touching up her lipstick after she’d washed her hands. Hearing how excited he was to be here, she was reminded of how much he truly relished these kinds of cases, a mystery and a monster, but without some of the harder truths they had had to face in the last few years. It reminded her of why she’d found herself drawn to his passion for his work and to the unknowns of the X-Files. It was, frankly, a bit of rush.

She gave him a toothy smile as she walked back into the living room. “You ready?”

His eyes trailed over her and they both paused. The moment lengthened in a way that wasn’t uncomfortable, but rather loaded and heavy. Waiting. Her gaze dropped to his mouth and her own lips parted involuntarily.

“Yeah, I’m ready.” He leaned forward, his arms dangling over his knees, looking up at her for another weighted moment before he stood up, breaking the spell.

Jesus, she thought she might combust. How was he doing this to her, after all this time spent as colleagues, as friends? There had always been an undefinable depth to their relationship, but this was another layer added to it, like an eruption of lava in the ocean, sending a rush of steam and heat up towards the surface, upsetting everything in its path.

And now they were together, in a tiny cabin, on an island in the middle of nowhere…

She squared her shoulders. She was being silly. They were both grown-ups who could handle their urges. Even if she was starting to wonder why they should…

* * *

Lawren Harris (1885-1970), Lake Superior, 1924, oil on canvas


	4. Chapter 4

_It is the largest body of fresh water in the world, as we have all heard time and again; but those are mere words, and convey no idea that any mind can grasp. How long and wide is it, how does it compare with salt-water seas of which we know, and how with bodies of land of which we have some knowledge? By such an analysis we shall learn that Lake Superior is indeed one of the wonders of Nature and one of the proudest of our possessions – or semi-possessions, to speak more correctly. The great lake is 360 miles long and 140 miles wide at its largest crossing. It possesses a superficial area of 32,000 square miles, or four times as many square miles as the State of Massachusetts. Roughly speaking, if we could turn the State of Indiana into water it would make another lake the size of Superior._

_\- Julian Ralph, Along the Bowstring, Or South Shore of Lake Superior_

Scully was grateful that Bernie had been kind enough to loan them her truck for the duration of their stay, after fifteen minutes down one of the bumpiest gravel roads of her life. The center of town, if you could call it that, was sparse — a few buildings and cottages on either side of the main road that spanned the island. There was a small store that sold basic necessities along with bait and hunting and fishing licenses, and attached to one side was the diner that Bernie had mentioned. The large wooden sign over the door said “Trappers”. In front of the store was a solitary gas pump that looked at least thirty years old.

On the other side of the road was a wooden structure more like a shanty than a building, with a larger storage shed behind it. The structure had a roof and walls on three sides, but the front was completely open. It looked like it had once been painted a cheery yellow, but now the paint had mostly worn away, leaving streaks of canary along the dull greyish timbers. An array of bloated orange life jackets hung on a rod in the back, and a large sign against the side advertised canoe and kayak rentals. There was no one inside, but a gangly teenage boy lounged on a picnic table a little further down the road, sitting on the table itself rather than the bench in a minor act of teenage rebellion. A red bicycle was propped up against the table.

It had stopped raining for the moment, but the sky was still an ominous shade of grey, leaving no doubt that it could open up into a downpour at any given moment. Beyond the shoreline, mist obscured the view of the ocean-like lake beyond.

Mulder pulled the truck up past the boat rental shack and parked just off the side of the road. “Diner’s probably the best place to start. Coffee?”

She nodded in agreement. “That sounds fantastic. I’d love one.”

* * *

Bernie had barrelled over to them when they’d arrived, introducing them around like a mother hen parading her brood about the farmyard. The sparse crowd in the diner didn’t yield much in the way of information, although they were able to find someone who knew Arnold Menzies, the survivor of the shipwreck from Mulder’s newspaper article, and who was able to give them his phone number. He was a fisherman who lived off-island, so it seemed an interview with him over the phone was likely the best they were going to get.

They settled in for a late lunch, plates piled high with the biggest clubhouse sandwiches Scully had ever seen alongside a heaping mound of crispy shoestring french fries. Bernie had laughed when Scully had asked what they had for salads, patting her gently on the arm with a, “No, dearie. No. I’ll get you fixed up right. Just wait.” Then she’d chuckled, a low deep earthy rumble, and tapped the side of her nose before disappearing behind the counter and through the swinging doors that presumably led to the kitchen.

Munching on her sandwich, Scully had to admit that Bernie had been right. This was _delicious_.

The diner door swung open, and the bell above it jingled. Two men walked in, clearly not locals, both of them looking around curiously. One was tall, with blond hair that was so pale it was nearly white. The other was of average height with a stockier build, with brown hair and eyes that were bright blue, despite being behind a fairly thick pair of glasses.

“I think those are our Canadian counterparts.” Mulder commented, nudging Scully’s elbow with his own to get her attention. There was something about those in law enforcement, the way they walked, observed, carried themselves, that became readily obvious after one joined the profession.

Scully looked over at the pair and nodded in agreement before catching their eyes and giving a slight wave.

Both men immediately smiled and made their way over to the counter, sitting down on the stools next to Mulder and Scully.

The tall blond spoke first. “You must be special agents Fox Mulder and Dana Scully.”

“You got it. Call me Mulder.” Mulder grinned and stuck out his hand, which the blond man shook before shaking Scully’s hand as well. “Aren’t you supposed to be wearing the whole red coat and hat thing?”

The man in the glasses laughed before sticking out his hand to shake hands with Mulder and Scully as well. “Nah, we’re kind of the pariahs of the RCMP. No one likes to admit we exist. They used to get all sorts of enquiries about why there was a pair of Mounties wasting taxpayers’ money to ask questions about sasquatch sightings or Ogopogo. It was less hassle for them if we just went in incognito-style.”

The blond man shook his head. “Not to mention the number of times we had to requisition replacement uniforms. The wear and tear on clothing in this business is crazy,” he gestured at Mulder, who was staring at him with wide eyes, “but, I’m sure I’m just preaching to the choir. You both know exactly what I mean. Oh, I’m Bob McKenzie, Inspector, Special Operations, by the way.”

“And I’m Doug Seagram, also an Inspector, Special Ops,” offered the other man. “But call me Dougie. Everyone does.”

“You can call me Scully. I think the only person who calls me Dana now is my mom.”

“You got it.” Bob grinned. “Is now a good time to review what we all know?”

“No time like the present.” Mulder picked up the folder next to his empty plate and set it down between them so they could all see and opened it up. “Here’s what we’ve pieced together so far…”

* * *

An hour, a pointless call with Arnold Menzies, and several cups of coffee later, Scully had reached her fill of mythological monsters and her bladder was about to burst. Mulder, Bob, and Dougie were carrying on like long-lost friends — they’d discovered that they all knew the Gunmen and had been swapping their best Frohike stories — so Scully had slipped away to use the bathroom.

Mulder was clearly in his element, and it was nice to see him so relaxed and unguarded, knowing that the pair of Mounties weren’t going to brush off his theories or mock him. She really liked Bob and Dougie so far; they were exceedingly polite, having apologized at least twice for having to share Bernie’s cabin with them, and they seemed to weigh each piece of evidence on its merits. While they didn’t subscribe to her degree of scientific rigour, they weren’t ready to race ahead with completely crackpot theories either.

Arnold Menzies had sadly been a dead end. He’d responded more with grunts and harrumphs than actual information according to Mulder and Bob, who had both spoken to him in turn. The storm had come out of nowhere, capsizing his boat. The other two men that had been on the boat were still missing, presumed drowned, and the search parties were no longer looking.

Scully remembered reading somewhere, although Gordon Lightfoot had put it more eloquently, that Lake Superior never gave up her dead, not willingly at least. The lake was cold enough that it inhibited bacterial growth, which kept bodies from floating to the surface. She’d had a nightmare after that, of shadowed hands grasping and pulling at her legs, icy skeletal fingers coiling around her ankles to pull her down, down, down into the cold unfathomable blackness until she’d woken herself with a hoarse shout.

In the only part of the conversation Arnold had been animated about, he had reaffirmed the details from the newspaper article, insisting that there had definitely and absolutely been a panther in the water that day. But given that he was also convinced that there were gnomes living in his begonias, which he also told the men about in great detail, Scully felt this was less than credible evidence.

Dougie had brought a stack of historical meteorological data showing that there were weather patterns not unlike the ones they were seeing now, and that they seemed to happen at random intervals if they looked back over the last seventy-five years. Sometimes they lasted for months, sometimes just a few weeks. It was peculiar.

Scully wanted to look over the data from some of the other islands and towns around this side of Lake Superior to see if this phenomenon was exclusive to Michipicoten Island, or if it occurred in other areas as well, but it would have to wait until Bob and Dougie were back on the mainland with access to all the RCMP resources.

When she left the washroom, Bernie tapped her on the arm. “Do you mind running this outside for me? Got a wee disaster in the back that needs tending to.”

“No, of course not. What is it?” Scully asked as Bernie thrust a package wrapped in aluminium foil and a cold can of Coke into her hands.

“Lunch for young master Blackburn. Byron. He’s all skin and bones. Needs to eat more or he’ll blow away. Ha!” She wiped her hands on her apron. “You’ll find him over by the boat shack. Thanks again!”

* * *

“Excuse me!” The teenage boy sitting on the top of the picnic table sprung up as Scully approached. “Are you Byron?”

“Yeah.” He stuffed his hands into his back pockets. “That’s me.”

“This is from Bernie.” Scully held out the foil-wrapped packet and the can of Coke. “I’m Dana.”

The boy’s eyes lost the hint of suspicion and he smiled as he took the drink and package from Scully’s outstretched hands. “Thanks. She’s a bit of a bully when it comes to making sure that everyone is fed.”

Scully laughed. “I think I offended her when I asked for a salad.”

“You’re probably right.” He unwrapped the foil to reveal an enormous sandwich, which he immediately took a huge bite of. “Mmmm… chicken salad. She knows it’s my favourite.”

Scully sat down at the picnic table and Byron sat down beside her, popping open the can of pop. “Did you grow up around here?” Scully asked.

He nodded; his mouth too full of food to answer at first. “Not here, of course. No one lives on the island over the winter except for Joe at the lighthouse, and he’s crazy. Certified bonkers. We come over for the summer. My parents run the canoe and kayak rental place.” He gestured at the nearby building and took a swig of Coke and then another bite of his sandwich. “My _nokomis_ —- Grandma Marguerite — used to run it before she broke her hip. She’s in a home in Sault Ste. Marie now.”

Scully looked up at the clouds that seemed to be growing darker by the minute and wondered how long they had before the rain would begin in earnest once again. “Is it normally like this?”

Byron shook his head. “Nah. Way more rain than usual lately. Weather like this is _mishibizhiw_ weather. I hope it lets up soon. Gonna be real bad for business this summer if it doesn’t.”

“Did you say mishipeshu?” Scully leaned forward.

“Yeah, that’s what my _nokomis_ would always say when it stormed hard. ‘Must be the _mishibizhiw_ stirring up trouble.’ They live in the water, ancient spirits that take the form of a spiked panther. She used to teach me all the traditional Ojibwe stories...” He trailed off, brushing a few stray crumbs off the table. “I miss her. Summers on Michipicoten aren’t the same without her here.”

“I’m sorry. She sounds great.”

“She is.”

They chatted for a few more minutes before he crumpled up the now empty tinfoil and tossed it into a nearby trash can before picking up his can of pop. “I should head home. Tell Bernie I said thanks if you see her before I do. Bye, Dana. Come see me if you want to rent a kayak, assuming it ever stops raining.”

He hopped on his bike with the ease of youth, one hand on the handlebars and one hand still holding his unfinished Coke, and pedalled off down the road.

* * *

Lawren Harris (1885-1970), Above Lake Superior, 1924, oil on canvas


	5. Chapter 5

_But the seas of the world are salty, and this lake is like a colossal diamond – clear, pure, sparkling, lying like a heaven-lighted gem in a bowl of rich greenery fringed with a lace-work of chromatic rocks that take on the most weird and enchanting shapes._

_\- Julian Ralph, Along the Bowstring, Or South Shore of Lake Superior_

“So, what do you make of all this so far, Scully?” Mulder asked, leaning back against the couch with his arms crossed behind his head.

Dougie and Bob had just retired to their room after thanking Mulder and Scully _yet again_ for their kindness in letting them share their accommodations, leaving them alone in the living room. It was raining — no surprise there — but it was a gentle rain, pittering lightly on the roof in a soothing way.

“I’m not sure there’s much of anything to go on at this point, to be honest. Myths and legends don’t make much of a case. There’s not much in the autopsy reports on file, and nothing that points to anything besides a few tragic cases of drowning. There’s no obvious links between the people who have died or the boats that have been sunk… I suppose we can poke around town a bit more, maybe look into the copper mine.” She thought for a minute, trying to come up with something even remotely plausible that warranted further investigation. How he had managed to get Skinner’s approval on this one, she had _no_ idea. “I don’t know, Mulder… it all seems pretty flimsy.”

She stood up and stretched from side to side, working the kinks out of her back. The exhaustion of the day was creeping in and it felt like ages had passed from when her alarm had gone off at four o’clock this morning so she would be ready when Mulder picked her up to go to the airport. “I’m going to go get ready for bed.”

“Oh. Okay. Let me know when you’re done.”

She went into the bedroom and shut the door behind her before changing into her pyjamas. She’d packed one of her warmer sets, a two-piece navy cotton set with long pants and a buttoned shirt, and, as she fastened the buttons, she was grateful she hadn’t packed something like a camisole and shorts. Gathering up her bag of toiletries, she called to Mulder that the bedroom was free for him to change and went to wash up and brush her teeth.

The bedroom door was open when she’d finished, and she saw that Mulder had changed into a grey t-shirt and a pair of black boxer shorts. She switched on the lamp next to the bed and turned off the lights while Mulder went to brush his teeth. Not quite sure what to do with herself, she turned back the covers and got into the bed.

She watched Mulder as he came back in, first giving her a soft smile, and then turning to fold up what he’d been wearing that day and tucking it somewhat carelessly into his bag on the floor next to the dresser. It felt very… _domestic…_ watching him get ready for bed, waiting for him to come to bed so she could turn off the light…

Finally, he was finished — she suspected that he was taking longer than usual on purpose — when had she ever seen him fold his clothes and put them away? — and it was oddly reassuring to know that this situation made him uneasy, too. He crawled into the bed next to her, lying on his back as though being very careful not to cross over the invisible line that divided her side of the bed from his.

“Are you going to read? I don’t mind if you want the light on for a bit.” Scully offered.

“No. No, I’m good. You can turn it off.”

Scully switched off the lamp and the room was plunged into darkness. It was easy to forget how dark it truly got in remote places like this with no street lights.

They lay there in the dark for a long while and she began to relax. Was this really all that different from a stake out in a car where they would take turns grabbing an hour of sleep each? It was just Mulder. Just her best and closest friend in all the world. The only person she would do anything for, without hesitation. Maybe he was nervous about the situation because he was worried about doing the wrong thing, worried it might spook her off or anger her. How could he know that nothing was further from the truth?

She bit down on her lower lip, the hint of pain helping to bring things into perspective.

If what she wanted was more, maybe she needed to show him that she was okay with more.

Decision made.

She shifted, sliding over just enough, just over that invisible line that ran down the center of the bed, separating her from him. She tilted her head to rest against his shoulder, her cheek pressing against the warmth of his skin. He tensed and then, ever so slightly, began to relax as it became clear that her movement had been intentional and that she had no plans to move any time soon.

Under the covers, his pinkie brushed hers, and she gripped it with her fingers, squeezing gently.

Letting out a long breath, she closed her eyes. As she was drifting off to sleep, she felt him press a kiss to the crown of her head, and she couldn’t help nuzzling in a little closer. She could get used to this. This was… nice.

* * *

The jangling sound of a phone ringing woke her and she opened her eyes to find the room bathed in the dim watery light of early morning. She was curled tightly against Mulder’s side, his arm wrapped around her to keep her close. Blinking, she sat up, still only half-awake, but she could hear a muffled voice speaking in the other room. Looking over at him, she saw that Mulder was awake, too. He’d just sat up and pushed the covers back when Dougie stuck his head through the open bedroom door.

“Good, you’re both up. There’s been another accident. Local lady just found a body washed up on their section of beach.”

* * *

The group of them stared grimly down at the body on the sand. The dead man appeared to be middle-aged, with a bushy brown beard just starting to be speckled with white. He was wearing an orange life jacket, not that it appeared to have helped him, but it was likely what had buoyed him along to the shore to be discovered more quickly. There was a gash on his forehead, but no other signs of physical damage.

Bob and Dougie took photographs and recorded their observations of the scene into a small tape recorder, while Mulder and Scully hung back and watched. Once that was done, the Mounties carefully checked the man’s pockets, coming up with a set of keys, a few coins, and a bedraggled leather wallet.

Bob managed to fish out a mostly intact, although soggy, driver’s license from the wallet. “His name is Jean-Pierre LeFevre, age 46, currently residing in Wawa, Ontario.”

Dougie shook his head. “Poor guy. Hopefully the unit will be here to pick him up soon and then we can run some searches to find his family and let them know what happened.”

“Do you know where they’ll take him for autopsy?” Scully asked, peering down at the body. Just because they couldn’t see any visible wounds didn’t mean there weren’t any.

“Probably Sault Ste. Marie,” Dougie answered. “It’s the closest.”

“Do you think they would let me tag along and observe? I’d like to see if there’s any more we can learn from this.”

Bob was carefully putting the camera back into its case but he nodded. “I don’t see why not… we can put in a good word for you. And I can send them the official communication that our respective authorities are collaborating on this case if they give you any trouble.”

Scully turned to Mulder. “Are you okay here on your own for a bit if I go?”

“Absolutely,” he said firmly. “Whatever you think is best.”

* * *

The morning vanished quickly between meeting with the officers who arrived with a stretcher and body bag to transport the body, running back to the cabin so Scully could pack an overnight bag, and then a boat ride to the mainland and the two hour drive to Sault Ste. Marie.

The autopsy itself took up most of the afternoon, with the resident pathologist being happy to have Scully’s assistance, and they shared a pleasant exchange about some of the newer forensic techniques now coming into common practice. Unfortunately, the autopsy didn’t lend itself to anything particularly interesting or out of the ordinary.

Jean-Pierre LeFevre had drowned, based on the water in his stomach, the bloody froth present in his airway, and the lack of any other obvious physical signs. The gash on his forehead, while deep, was likely caused by a collision with a rock or other debris from his boat, and was not significant enough to have killed him in and of itself. It was possible he had struck his head and lost consciousness, but there was no way to tell conclusively.

She grabbed some dinner at a restaurant nearby, her stomach reminding her rather violently that she’d missed both breakfast and lunch already today. As she ate her meal, she thought about storms and monsters and dead men. She had seen enough things that couldn’t be adequately explained — at least, not yet — in the last seven years, but that didn’t mean that there wasn’t a rational, scientific explanation for what was happening.

The abnormal number of storms was based in fact, and the weather over the Great Lakes as a whole was often unpredictable. The people affected had been familiar with the area as far as she knew, so they had to have known that storms, even fierce ones, were a possibility. These were experienced fishermen and sportsmen who knew these waters well.

Assuming there was something in the lake, like a mishipeshu, where had it come from? Why had there been no sightings, no reliable information that some aquatic animal unknown to science had taken up residence around Michipicoten Island?

She finished the last few bites of her pasta, thinking.

Maybe there _was_ someone here who could provide more information…

* * *

Lawren Harris (1885-1970), North Shore, Lake Superior, 1923, oil on canvas


	6. Chapter 6

_Those who have never seen Superior get an inadequate idea by hearing it spoken of as a lake; Superior is a sea; It breeds storms and rain and fog like a sea. It is cold, masterful, and dreaded._

_— Rev. George Grant, 1872_

Scully stepped out of the cab, grateful that the driver had easily accepted her American bills; one of the benefits of being in a Canadian town that saw more than a few U.S. citizens on a daily basis. The outside of Parkview Manor was composed of red bricks, and she could easily picture how nice it must have been when it was new. Now, the white paint on the trim around the front windows was nearly scraped bare by the wind and rain and years gone by, and the brass letters above the doors looked tired and careworn, each letter no longer quite upright and leaning against their neighbours. She pushed the doors open and went inside.

The vinyl floor in the lobby was mint green, with a desk straight ahead of her and two large rooms off to either side. Through the large doorways, she could see that one led to a dining area filled with tables; the other appeared to be a lounge or common room, filled with mismatched chairs and a TV blaring some sort of obnoxious talk show. Most of the chairs were filled with residents, some watching the TV intently, some dozing. More than a few curious faces turned her way as she approached the clerk sitting behind the desk.

The man was reading a book, but he closed it as she came closer and he smiled at her. He had dark hair and a thick beard and his eyes were kind and full of warmth. “Hi there, can I help you with something?”

“Yes, I’m looking for someone: Marguerite Blackburn. Would it be possible for me to talk to her?”

“Sure thing. Does she know you’re coming?”

“No.” Inside her pocket, her fingers skimmed the edge of her badge, but she didn’t think it was necessary at this point to use it. “I was talking to her grandson the other day, I promised him I would pop in if I had a chance while I was in town, to let her know that he was thinking about her.”

The clerk nodded in recognition. “Was that Byron, by any chance?”

Scully blinked. “It was.”

“I’m not surprised.” He grinned. “He’s all she talks about. You’d think he walked on water. I’m sure she’d love to talk to you.”

“Where would I find her?” She glanced towards the lounge. “Is she down here or in her room?”

The clerk glanced at his watch. “This time of day, she’s usually in the third floor recreation room. She hates the one down here. Always complains the TV is too loud and that she can’t concentrate on her book.” He patted the cover of the book he’d just set down and chuckled. “Can’t say I blame her.”

Scully couldn’t help smiling as well. Something about the man’s cheerful disposition was strangely uplifting. “Thanks. The elevator is…?”

“Oh! Just take the hallway behind me and go to your left. The elevators are painfully slow, just to warn you, but they do work. The recreation room is room 307. Go right when you get off the elevator.”

“Thanks again.”

The clerk wasn’t exaggerating about the elevators being slow, but somehow Scully didn’t mind. It was like everything had slowed a little as she’d walked through the doors here, and she felt lighter, like she’d paused to catch her breath in the middle of a hard run.

She found room 307 without any difficulty. It was a smaller room than the one on the main floor, and one wall was filled with bookshelves. There were three cozy armchairs, each with a small side table, and two of the corners sheltered some very overgrown plants that looked like they were actively trying to escape their pots and maybe someday make their way to the more fertile lands of the hallway.

An elderly man with thick tortoise shell framed glasses sat in one of the chairs, his hair like wisps of clouds sheltering the dome of his head. He was engrossed in his book, not even looking up as Scully entered the room.

The only other person in the room was a woman, her skin wizened and wrinkled like a preserved apple although her hair was still a deep black, long and flowing over her shoulders. Her eyes were closed, as was the book in her lap. Scully hesitated. She didn’t want to wake her. She might have time to come back in the morning before heading back to Michipicoten, but she would have to be quick…

“Well, are you going to sit down?”

The woman’s gravelly voice startled her. “Are you Marguerite?”

The woman opened one milky eye and peered up at her, pursing her lips. “That depends.”

Scully held out her hand, but the woman ignored it. “I’m Dana Scully. I was talking to your grandson, Byron, the other day and he was telling me about some of the stories you used to tell him when he was a boy.”

Marguerite nodded knowingly. “He was such a good boy. Always liked to help, that one. Trailing after me no matter what I was doing.” Her mouth cracked into a wide smile. She was missing one of her front teeth, but the rest were still tiny and white. “And he liked stories. Would sit and listen until my voice gave out. Silly boy. Now,” the old woman sniffed and folded her hands into her lap, “there’s coffee in the kitchenette next door. Why don’t you go pour us both a cup and then you can come sit and I’ll tell you about the time when Byron thought he could teach himself to fly if he just jumped out of a tall enough tree?”

* * *

Marguerite’s stories about Byron were surprisingly entertaining; she had a way with words, drawing the listener into her world with ease. Scully had laughed until her stomach hurt — and the man with the wispy hair had finally huffed out of the room in annoyance with his book — during the tale of how Byron had secretly tried to rehabilitate an injured fox, hiding it in a crate in the shed, and the sound of its night time barks and shrieks had the RCMP out looking for a potential murder victim.

Finishing the last swallow of her coffee, Marguerite smacked her lips and eyed Scully slyly over the rim of her mug. “So, now are you ready to tell me why you’re really here?”

“Well…” Scully began, licking her lips, “there have been a number of boats that have sunk recently, all around Michipicoten Island. Abnormal weather patterns. Fog. Storms.”

“Aahh.” Marguerite nodded. “The _mishibizhiw_. I thought so.”

“Yes,” Scully acknowledged. “Byron told me that you used to tell him stories about it — them.”

“They are powerful spirits who bring storms and misfortune.” The old woman hummed, thinking. “There has not been one in the waters in a long time, but something has woken one and it has found a host.”

She looked at Scully thoughtfully before speaking again.

“Long ago, there were many _mishibizhiw_ in the lakes, especially at Michipicoten, where the copper was plentiful. They are attracted to the copper, protective of it. But then the spirits from the sky came, the _animikiig_ — the thunderbirds — and there was a great battle between them. The _animikiig_ built nests among the high rocks, keeping watch over the waters and preventing the _mishibizhiw_ from growing too numerous and powerful. They kept each other in balance.”

Marguerite reached over and took Scully’s hand between her own, her skin dry and papery. “Yes,” she murmured, patting the top of Scully’s hand, “I see now.” She looked up, her gaze bright and piercing as she brushed aside her long dark hair to touch the back of her own neck, tapping lightly with one finger. “Right here.”

Scully blanched, her free hand going up to touch the fine line of the scar on the nape of her neck.

“There are other sky races. You have the blood of the _animikiig_ ancestors in you, although you were not born with it.” She fell silent for a long moment until she appeared to come to some sort of decision. “You were right to come here. I have something I think will help.”

* * *

“Hey, Scully, it’s good to hear your voice.”

Scully cradled the phone against her ear as she sat down on the hotel bed. “You, too. How did things go out there today?”

She settled in, twisting the curls of the phone cord around her finger as Mulder filled her in on the day’s events. They’d driven out to the lighthouse and had a long talk with Joe, who apparently had spotted some strange movements out on the lake before the storm had hit the night before. Then they’d headed out to the old copper mine that was rumoured to be haunted, but it had proved to be a wet hike with nothing to show for it but a few ticks and a multitude of mosquito bites.

“How about you?” he asked. “Anything interesting in the autopsy?”

“Not much I’m afraid. Cause of death was drowning, which wasn’t unexpected given the circumstances. A few minor bruises and abrasions, but nothing inconsistent with a simple boating accident.”

“No claw or teeth marks, huh?”

She smiled wryly. “Afraid not.” She paused and then continued. “But, there is something else that might interest you.”

“Oooh... illuminate me, Scully.”

“After I’d finished the autopsy, I thought I’d go see if I could speak with Byron’s grandmother at the nursing home. And, she had a lot to say about the mishipeshu.” She looked at the copper bird figure that she’d placed on the nightstand next to the bed before picking it up and turning it over in her hands as she talked. “She gave me something that she said would help, a relic of some kind. It looks like an eagle, but she said it was a thunderbird. You’d like it — its wings and legs are outstretched, so it looks like an ‘X’.” She set it back down gently.

“Hmm… that would make sense, based on the legends I read earlier. Not sure how a statue is going to help us, but at this point I suppose we should take what we can get.”

“You can take a look at it tomorrow. I should be back on Michipicoten at around 2 or so, assuming the boats are running on schedule.”

“Bernie is going to take the boys and me out on her boat for a look around the island around noon, but I’ll try to be back in time to pick you up at the dock.”

“All right, well… don’t stay up all night swapping Bigfoot stories, okay?”

He chuckled. “No promises. Night, Scully.”

“Good night, Mulder.”

She set the phone back in its cradle and finished getting ready for bed — washing her face with the complimentary bar of soap and putting on her pyjamas before sliding under the covers.

The bed felt very large and empty as she rolled onto her side and went to sleep, her dreams filled with water and shadows and the low rumbling music of thunder.

* * *

Lawren Harris (1885-1970), Above Lake Superior, 1921, oil on canvas


	7. Chapter 7

_Nature here is not in her pretty moods, toying with water, playing with flowers. Her music is thunder. Her attire is the somber green of the pine. Her play is the everlasting wash of the waves against solid granite walls._

_– Chicago Tribune, 1870_

“The fog is getting thicker!” Mulder had to raise his voice to be heard over the thrum of the boat’s motor, and Bob nodded in response. They’d been out on Bernie’s boat for a lot longer than he’d thought they would be, and he was sure Scully must be on the boat over to Michipicoten, if she wasn’t there already. The fog had made for slower going, although they’d nearly completed their zigzag circuit around the island.

“Hopefully it means we’re on the right track!” Dougie yelled back.

“There’s nothing we can hit out here, right, Bernie?” Bob asked, holding tightly to the metal railing that ran around the half wall that enclosed the rear section of the boat. His pale complexion had taken on a decidedly greenish hue. “Not much visibility.”

Bernie shrugged and laughed, unfazed. “Always stuff you can hit if you don’t know that it’s there.”

“That’s... not exactly comforting…” Bob muttered in response.

“Hey,” Dougie interjected abruptly, “do you all hear that?”

They all stood still and listened.

The hard patter of rain against the tarp above them. The rhythmic crash of the wind whipping the waves into a frenzy. The dull grinding hum of the motor.

And then, something that might have been a displeased hiss.

“That!” Dougie exclaimed.

“I heard it, too.” Mulder gripped the railing tighter and leaned his head out. “Can you tell where it’s coming from?”

“I’d wager right there,” Bob said with an air of false calm, pointing off the starboard side at an enormous lump of sleek black fur disappearing back below the waves with the briefest glint of a coppery flick of its tail. “H-E- double hockey sticks…” He blew out a long whistle. “You all saw that? Right?”

* * *

He wasn’t there at the dock to meet her. She wasn’t sure why that filled her with fear, like a bucket of icy water had been dumped down her back, but it did.

The wind was whipping her hair as Scully hurried off the boat. It had been a rocky passage this time, and her stomach was unsettled; although whether it was from her unspecified concerns about Mulder’s safety or from the choppiness of the water, she couldn’t tell. Probably both.

She wasn’t sure where to go, only that Mulder was out there, somewhere, and she needed to find him, to warn him, however improbable that might be. She was glad she’d decided to bring her pair of runners and the water-resistant windbreaker that Charlie had given her for Christmas last year as she trotted briskly down a gravel path that led to the nearby sandy shoreline. Rain was pelting down in hard bullets that stung against her forehead and cheeks, but she jogged on with her eyes half-squinted so she wouldn’t trip over a stray branch or rock in her way.

When she reached the beach, she held a hand up to shield her eyes, looking in every direction across the vast expanse of water.

This was hopeless.

What had she even expected to see? She continued to strain her eyes, trying to make sense of any sort of shape or movement out on the water through the downpour while her mind raced. Dougie and Bob were on the boat with Mulder and Bernie. Surely they could call for support from the nearest RCMP unit or whatever the Canadian equivalent of the Coast Guard was here. Did they even cover lakes?

But she hadn’t been able to reach Mulder by phone. Would the boat’s radio be able to work in this kind of a storm? What if it was damaged? What if—?

“Ow! Son of a bitch!” Scully cursed, recoiling as if she’d been struck. Something was burning; a sudden flash of heat scorching the top of her thigh. 

She reached into her pocket and drew out the small copper statuette that Marguerite had given her. It seemed unnaturally warm to her touch, but not hot; definitely not hot enough to burn her. It was probably just warm from being in her pocket, feeling warmer than it should because her hands were chilled from the wind and rain. She flipped it over from back to front. Nothing unusual.

There was a low rumble of thunder in the distance, something she felt through the soles of her feet as well as heard. She took a step forward. The sky felt heavy somehow, like a wall of force pressing down, hard enough that it felt like her ears might pop. It seemed to ease as she stepped forward again, but then the sensation was back, as oppressive as ever.

It brought back a memory from when she was very young, when she’d been only three years old and had been swept off her feet by an unexpected current, by a parents’ momentary lapse in attention during a fun-filled day at the beach. She didn’t remember the details, although the structure of the memory came from hearing recounted tales of it from Bill and Missy when she was older.

The only part of it that she truly remembered for herself, was the strange sense of calm. She was being held under by a force larger than herself and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it. Instinctively, she knew she mustn’t breathe, that she could not give in to her body’s urging to inhale deeply. And then her mother was dragging her up, gripping her upper arms so tightly that there would be bruises the next day. And then there was sunlight and the taste of salt and her mother was crying and she was crying.

It was like that now.

She mustn’t breathe.

She took another step, walking calmly towards the water’s edge, as the statue in her hand began to throb, began to pulse as though it were a living heart she cradled between her palms.

It felt a little like she was in a dream, the edges around her vision growing blurred in the falling rain.

* * *

The small vessel was heaving, rising up to the top of one swell and crashing into the valley of the next. Even Bernie had lost her seemingly perpetual laissez-faire attitude, her lips pressed together in a firm line as she steered the boat expertly through the waves.

“There!” Mulder shouted, clutching Dougie’s arm as he pointed. “Everyone brace yourselves!”

Cutting across one of the swells was a large dark shape, and it appeared to be headed straight for them. Mulder held the railing in one hand, his other arm tightly wrapped around one of the vertical support poles for the roof material. The tarp had come loose in one corner, whipping maniacally about in the strong gusts of wind. They were all soaked to the bone between the rain pelting down and the water that periodically crashed and sprayed up over the sides.

He was more than a little afraid, and he hoped Scully was somewhere safe. Ideally, she’d made it back to Michipicoten before the storm had kicked up and she was holed up in the diner with a hot cup of coffee.

“Holy shit, would you look at that!” Dougie hollered, and they all turned to see a massive head rise out of the water next to the boat.

It looked like a jaguar — Arnold Menzies had been correct about that — but the shape wasn’t quite right. Its features were feline, but the skull and jawline were elongated, and its jaws looked like they would open wide, like a crocodile’s. Its eyes were a luminescent green with rectangular shaped pupils like a goat’s and they seemed to flicker and glow as though they were lit from within. Between its ears jutted a pair of spiky antlers.

It seemed to eye them each in turn.

And then it opened its mouth wide. And roared.

All of them, Bernie included, reflexively slapped their hands up to cover their ears, causing the boat to pull sharply to the right. This was not a human sound, not a natural sound, it was like the sound of the storm, of the fury of the wind and the rain, echoing and reverberating inside each of them like a gong had been struck, filling them all with the force of it until they overflowed and they screamed.

* * *

Scully startled for a moment when her feet entered the water. Had she been walking? The heat from the figurine was licking up her arms now, her hands ablaze, but she was incapable of dropping it, even if she’d wanted to. It was fused to her hands, but it didn’t hurt, despite the searing heat.

The storm was growing stronger, thunder rumbling so loudly that she could feel it inside of her, making her muscles tremble and her teeth chatter. She closed her eyes against the fierceness of the wind as she took another step forward, moving deeper into the shallow water along the shore’s edge. The waves crashed against her thighs, trying to push her back, but she stood firm.

There was a strange sensation of being caught between earth and sky, water and air. There was a presence out there, but she could feel it both above and below, and there was a sense of connection between them, like a taut cord being tugged back and forth in a cosmic game of tug-of-war. There was a keening sound in the wind that was growing louder, a soprano sung into counterpoint to the bass roaring and crashing of the waves.

She opened her eyes, and the first bright flash of lightning lit up the sky in a millisecond of bright white light. Above her, the sky seemed to press down, making her buckle with the pressure of it, and then it released, then pushed down again, and released. She looked up to see a shadow pass behind the clouds, arcs of electricity crackling off of it to strike the water below.

She was hot all over, burning up with it, no longer even noticing the rain or the waves or the storm.

She screamed, and the shadow in the clouds answered.

* * *

The boat was at the whim of the waves, although that was the least of their worries at the moment. The creature had a massive paw latched onto the side of the boat, tilting it at a sharp angle, and they were all scrabbling to keep their footing.

“Hold on!” Dougie yelled. “Just hold on!”

There was a sudden sheet of lightning that lit up the sky in a flash so bright it was nearly blinding. Mulder closed his eyes, both arms wrapped tightly around the support pole that was bending precariously in the strong gusts. More bolts of lightning flashed behind his closed eyelids and then there was a throbbing in the air above them, like the beating of a pair of enormous wings.

He wasn’t sure why, but he had the strong sense that they should stay still, stay unnoticed. He kept his eyes pressed closed.

There was a screech from the sky above them and he fell down to his knees involuntarily, unable to withstand the power of it. He pressed his face against the pole, his survival instinct stronger than the desire to cover his ears.

The boat rocked violently as the pressure from the side the mishipeshu had wrapped a paw over suddenly released, and they were all flung abruptly in the opposing direction. He heard Bernie cry out in alarm, and he opened his eyes enough to see that she’d been catapulted backward. Lying down and stretching out on his stomach, he reached an arm out to her, which she gripped gratefully.

_Please let us get out of here safely. Please let Scully be okay. If anything had happened to her…_

Not a good line of thinking. He forced himself to breathe. He could see Dougie and Bob, also lying prone, but still gripping onto anything they could reach, so they must both still be conscious.

The flashes of lightning and answering rumbles of thunder were constant now; they must be in the direct center of the storm. The wind was hissing and snarling, and there were sounds of snapping and tearing. The boat pitched and yawed precariously as they all held on for their lives. Had he been a praying man, this would have been the time for it.

The air pressure changed abruptly, and there was a deafening crash in the water somewhere off to their right. He held onto Bernie’s arm as tightly as he could.

And then everything went silent.

He was struck with a sense of profound sadness and yet, somehow, relief. A taste of lemonade and of summers past and the lazy calm of a sunny afternoon. Children running and playing on the beach. Sandcastles and hikes through shaded forest trails.

There was a long sigh of letting go and the wind went still.

* * *

Lawren Harris (1885-1970), Clouds, Lake Superior, 1923, oil on canvas


	8. Chapter 8

_I could_ feel _the immensity of the unsalted sea that reached away before me. Since then I have come upon Superior at different points, and everywhere that imperial quality has impressed itself upon my mind._

_\- Julian Ralph, Along the Bowstring, Or South Shore of Lake Superior_

She was filled with a sense of calm, as though she were waking from a long sleep where everything was just as it should be. She was walking barefoot along a wild stretch of shoreline, the wet sand firm beneath her feet. The water was still, stretching out to the horizon mirroring the blue sky overhead. It almost felt like the land itself was floating, suspended in perfect balance between them.

There was a voice in the distance, getting closer, and although she couldn’t see the source as of yet, it filled her with happiness, and she began to run, effortless, her hair streaming behind her.

“Scully!”

She ran, eager to be home, as the gulls wheeled and soared, dipping down to touch the water before rising once more with a few lazy beats of their wings.

“Scully!”

She was running so quickly now that her feet were barely skimming the surface of the sand and she felt light, so light, like the wind might carry her up and away.

“Scully!”

“Mulder?” It was hard to force her lips into the proper shape and his name came out slurred and sloppy. She opened her eyes, blinking as his face swam into view above her own. “Where am I? What happened?” She was lying on the beach; there was coarse sand beneath her fingers and she was suddenly aware that she was soaked through and very, very cold.

And then she was in Mulder’s arms and he was holding her close, so tightly that she could feel him shaking. He was muttering words into the wet tendrils of her hair, so quietly that she could only catch fragments and tatters of them.

“Can’t… what if I’d… too late… almost lost… too many times…”

“Mulder?”

He pulled back to look at her, his eyes wild and wide. He traced the landscape of her cheekbone with his thumb and his panic seemed to ease. “Never again, Scully.”

She shook her head, confused. He wasn’t making sense.

“I’ve come too close to losing you — no, we’ve _both_ come too close to losing each other — I can’t…” He sputtered to a halt as the pad of his thumb grazed her lips. “I don’t want to waste any more time.”

She nodded, understanding everything now. Understanding what he was really asking. Meeting his gaze with her own, she kissed his thumb, felt his gasp. “Neither do I.”

He leaned in as she pulled him down, feeling the heat of his mouth against her own. Like arcs of electricity shooting up through her toes, claiming every nerve ending and sending out sparks, her body came alive against his. Nothing else existed except for her fingers clenched in his hair, the sweep of his tongue against hers, the quiet groans passed from his mouth to hers and then back again in equal measure.

“Well.” There was an awkward cough from somewhere behind them. “About time.”

“Finally, am I right?”

“Yep, Dougie. Right as always.”

* * *

“And then I guess you found me on the beach,” Scully finished.

She rubbed the towel through her hair one last time before laying it down on top of the dresser. Once Mulder was done in the shower, she would take it into the bathroom and hang it up to dry. She was feeling much better now that she was warm and dry, bundled up in a pair of sweatpants and one of Mulder’s heavy sweatshirts. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, she ran her fingers through her hair, trying to take out the worst of the tangles.

She could see the bathroom door from where she was sitting; Mulder had left it partially cracked open so they could continue to talk while he showered as well.

“What happened to the figurine Marguerite gave you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember much after it got hot. I must have dropped it… We could go back and look for it although I’m not sure if I could identify the exact spot on the shore where I was standing…”

The water shut off, and she heard the shower door open. “I doubt we’d find it, even if we knew where to look.” His voice was muffled. “I think it served its purpose and it isn’t there anymore.”

She scooted herself up the bed so that she could lie down, still on top of the covers, but resting her head on one of the pillows. Folding her arms behind her head, she stared up at the cream-coloured popcorn ceiling. “And I suppose that purpose was to summon the thunderbird to defeat the mishipeshu and drive it back down into the deep for another day,” she said dryly.

“The eternal struggle, Scully.” Mulder appeared in the doorway, his hair wet and tousled into spikes; the bath towel wrapped around his lean hips. “You find it in every mythos for a reason. Light against dark. Good versus evil. Angels and demons. Cops and robbers.”

She propped herself up so she could see him better. “Or it was just consistent with the seasonally abnormal weather conditions we’ve been seeing and it was nothing more than coincidence that the storm abated when it did?”

“Really, Scully? That’s the best you can do?” He took a few steps into the room, and she felt her breath catch in her throat. Pretending not to stare simply wasn’t even an option.

“Well,” she licked her lips, feeling pleased when she saw him tense, “it’s no more farfetched or preposterous than your own theory. Neither of us has any concrete proof one way or the other.”

He took a step closer to the bed, staring down at her. She was distinctly aware of the signs of her burgeoning arousal, grateful for the thick material of the Oxford shirt she had pilfered from his bag that hid the way her nipples had tightened into hard buds.

“There are multiple eyewitness accounts of a jaguar-like creature in the water from credible people, I might add. Two members of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. _And_ an FBI agent, who I happen to know is _exceptionally_ credible.”

She scoffed. “Easily discredited. Eyewitness accounts are notoriously unreliable, even under impeccable conditions. If they can’t be trusted when the perpetrator is another human being, how can they possibly be trusted in the case of an animal or something they can’t easily identify, especially under conditions of heavy storms or almost complete darkness.” She locked her eyes on his, fearing what might happen if she were to let them drop down to his chest, lightly dusted with hair and still damp from the shower.

“What about what Byron and Marguerite told you?” He leaned closer, ever so slightly. It would be nothing to move her arm down, to tug the edge of the towel free…

“Local legends. In every mythos, like you said. Stories we told ourselves to create a sense of order before we understood the science of how certain phenomena actually happened. For example, if you look at...” It felt like the steps to a familiar dance, the plaintive notes of a familiar tune, a familiar sense of _almost_ , of _not yet,_ and she found herself inexplicably ready for something familiar… but _new_.

In the middle of her explanation, she stopped.

“Mulder?”

He froze, his brow furrowing, and she could see him trying to quickly ascertain if he’d done something wrong, if he’d misspoken… “What is it?”

“How long did you say Bob and Dougie were going to be at the diner?”

“Well, they said they wanted to talk to Bernie about another file they had open near here and then they were going to grab something to eat. He said they’d bring us back something, too.” He paused. “Bob specifically made a point of saying that they wouldn’t be back until late and not to wait up. Then he winked.”

“So, you’re saying we’re alone for the foreseeable future?”

“I suppose so… Hey, Scully, are you coming on to me? Because, if so, it’s working.” He flashed her a playful grin.

She reached out to take his hand, rubbing her thumb over the back of his knuckles, and the smile slowly dropped from his face as the moment stretched out between them. She wished she could freeze this moment in her mind the way Mulder could, to have the ability someday, far from now, to recall the way he looked — a little unsure but not afraid, his eyes only for her; the way she felt — like she was suddenly too warm, prickles of heat breaking out all over her body, and a stomach full of butterflies.

“Scully?” It was quiet, a question fully formed and ready, at long last, to be uttered aloud.

There was only one response, one perfect counterpoint, one answer. She drew his hand in towards her, closing her eyes for a brief second as she kissed the ridge of his knuckles, keeping them poised on the cusp for just a little longer, just one more breath. Then she opened her eyes and met his gaze, unable to keep the tremor from her voice. “Mulder.”

She drew him down until she could claim his mouth with her own, his arms coming down to rest on either side of her head so he could brace himself. She kissed him long and slow, the way she had always wanted to, tasting the slide of his tongue against her own, and she whimpered against his lips. In response, he drew back slightly, biting her lower lip and then soothing the spot with swipes of his tongue until she sighed deeply. She traced her hands along the defined swells of his biceps. God, he was really here. She wasn’t imagining this.

Wrapping her arms around his back, she tugged him down further, wanting the weight of him pressing her down into the firm mattress. She never wanted to stop kissing him, _not ever_ , as he slanted his mouth across hers to plunge his tongue into her mouth once more. Her fingers were in his hair, holding him in place.

She could feel him, hot and hard against the softness of her belly, just a few layers of fabric separating his skin from hers. Her hips rocked, already seeking friction, as he ground himself against her.

“You’re so beautiful, Scully. You have no idea.” His mouth trailed down her jawline to her neck, making her shiver as his stubble prickled against her skin. He bit and sucked his way down her carotid artery, making her squirm in the best possible way. Tangling her legs around his, she surged up against him as he pressed down, drawing a strangled groan from his lips. She ran her fingers down his back, scraping lightly with her nails until she reached the towel at his hips.

“God, take this off...” She tugged at it, feeling it loosen, but it remained in place, sandwiched between the two of them.

“You, too…” He bit down on the collar of the sweatshirt she was wearing, tugging it between his teeth for a moment before letting go. “As much as this looks _far_ better on you than me, I’d much rather see it on the floor.” He paused to meet her eyes. They were both breathing heavily and his pupils were blown wide and dark. “Naked on three?”

She nodded.

“Okay. One… two… three!” He pressed a hard kiss to her mouth, making her gasp, and then he slid off of her and whipped the towel free from his hips.

At the same time, she scrambled to pull the loose sweatshirt over her head, tossing it carelessly to the floor before wiggling her sweatpants down her legs until she could kick them free.

“Holy fuck, Scully. I’m the luckiest man alive.” He was staring at her, awestruck, his Adam’s apple bobbing as his cock, which was already jutting out impressively, twitched perceptibly.

“Oh my God, Mulder, look at you.” She let her eyes drift down his body appreciatively, allowing herself to _look_ , unrestrained. “Come here, please…”

He lowered himself down gently, but she was done with gentle, overcome with want, and leaned up to pull him against her more forcefully. “I want you, Mulder,” she murmured against his ear before taking the lobe between her teeth and biting down carefully, just enough to make him groan, just enough to make his cock twitch against her thigh. “I promise that I am _far_ from done with you, and I want to fuck you and make love to you and savour you in every way imaginable, but right now, I think I’m going to die if you aren’t inside of me in the next thirty seconds.”

He pulled back to look at her, one hand sliding up her leg to her core, feeling how wet she was, teasing her folds with his fingers. And then he kissed her, slow and sensuous and long, stealing the breath from her lungs until she was light headed and dizzy.

“Has it been thirty seconds?”

It took her a minute to parse the words, to make sense of them. “Has it… what?”

“Mmm… close enough…”

And then he was inside of her in one thrust, the sensation of it making her cry out loud with the pleasure of it.

“Fuck, Scully,” he growled, “I don’t know how long I’m going to be able to last.” He pumped slowly in and out of her, moaning with each plunge back into her heat. “You feel incredible.”

“Don’t hold back.” Her head was writhing from side to side, the first shocks of electric pleasure already sparking from her toes and up the tendons of her feet. “I’m already close. Please, Mulder.”

He reached between them, his thumb settling on her clit as he began to thrust in earnest, a low groan escaping from his throat. She wrapped her legs around his hips, needing him closer, deeper, tighter.

“Scully…” He nuzzled at her collarbones, unable to reach her breasts, but pressing warm open-mouthed kisses across any skin he could reach. “Scullyyyy…”

She could feel her back beginning to arch upward as she hurtled towards release, overcome by the sensation of Mulder’s skin, so warm and slick sliding against her own, the thrust of his cock buried deep inside, the firm circular press of this thumb against her clit. “God, Mulder, I’m going to come, I’m going to come so hard…”

“Let go, Scully. I want to feel you, want to feel you when you come around me, want to —”

She didn’t hear the rest as her orgasm slammed into her like an oncoming train, rendering her temporarily deaf and blind as her body shook with the force of it. She was vaguely aware of Mulder coming, too, clutching her close as his hips sputtered, trying to push himself impossibly deeper inside her.

They lay there, panting and exhausted, for a few minutes before Scully was able to raise her arm to brush a sweaty tendril of hair from Mulder’s forehead. He had collapsed on her chest, his cheek pressed against one of her breasts.

“I haven’t even had a chance to tell you how much I love these,” he mumbled against her flesh, taking a rosy nipple into his mouth and sucking gently before letting go. “Scully, your breasts are beautiful and I love them.”

“Don’t worry, Mulder. Once we’re home, I promise you’ll have plenty of time to get acquainted properly.”

“You promise?” He lifted his head to look at her, his cheeks flushed and gorgeous.

She traced the edge of his lower lip with her thumb. “I promise. This is only the beginning.”

* * *

Lawren Harris (1885-1970), Lakeside View, 1922, oil on canvas


	9. Epilogue

_In few parts of the coast of the Atlantic itself has Nature done such bold, majestic work as she scatters lavishly all around Lake Superior._

_\- Julian Ralph, Along the Bowstring, Or South Shore of Lake Superior_

The sun was shining as they pulled up to the dock and the four of them piled out of the cab of the truck; the two Mounties along with Mulder and Scully. Bernie had told them it was fine to just leave the truck there, that she would swing by and get it when business at the diner was slow.

“This was great! Hope we get the chance to collaborate again sometime!” Dougie shook Mulder and Scully’s hands in turn while Bob unloaded all of their bags from the bed of the pickup truck. “Sasquatch sightings really pick up in the fall, so give me a call in September if you want to go ‘squatchin’ with me and Bob.”

“Scully?” He turned to her hopefully, puppy dog eyes in full effect.

She slung her bag over her shoulder. “No way, Mulder. You do you, but it’s a hard pass from me.”

“That’s okay, Scully. We’ll take good care of him. It can be a boys’ weekend! Now, I know a guy who sells this _musk_ , and he says it’ll attract…”

Scully shook her head and walked on toward where the boat from the mainland was pulling in. A pair of adults with a gaggle of kids in tow, all of them loaded down with backpacks and sleeping bags got off, chatting happily.

It was a beautiful day, the start of what looked to be a long hot summer, with a sky so perfectly blue it almost made her teeth ache. She hoped that it meant it would be a profitable season for both Bernie and Byron’s family.

Mulder came up beside her, his hand unerringly settling against the small of her back. “What do you think, Scully? Ready to go home?”

She met his eyes, stepping closer so that his hand slid around her waist instead. “Yeah,” she said softly. “I’m ready.”

* * *

Lawren Harris (1885-1970), Above Lake Superior, 1922, oil on canvas

**Author's Note:**

> I could not have done this without the support of two of the most fantastic ladies and friends I know, even though we have yet to meet in real life. MJ (Josie Lange) and Irja (Hot_elf) - thank you from the bottom of my heart for all your help and grammar checks and advice that made this story so much better. All the hugs to you both!


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